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“And you don’t think I’ll come and get them?” he shouted upward into the dizzying sea of swaying green. “Tell Captain Accompong I’m coming! I’ll have my young men back, and back safe—or I’ll have his head!”
Blood rose in his face, and he thought he might burst, but had better sense than to punch something, which was his very strong urge. He was alone; he couldn’t afford to damage himself. He had to arrive among the maroons with everything that still remained to him, if he meant to rescue Tom and resolve the rebellion—and he did mean to rescue Tom, no matter what. It didn’t matter that this might be a trap; he was going.
He calmed himself with an effort of will, stamping round in a circle in his stockinged feet until he had worked off most of his anger. That was when he saw them, sitting neatly side by side under a thorny bush.
They’d left him his boots. They did expect him to come.
HE WALKED FOR THREE DAYS. HE DIDN’T BOTHER TRYING TO FOLLOW A trail; he wasn’t a particularly skilled tracker, and finding any trace among the rocks and dense growth was a vain hope in any case. He simply climbed, finding passage where he could, and listened for the horns.
The maroons hadn’t left him any supplies, but that didn’t matter. There were numerous small streams and pools, and while he was hungry, he didn’t starve. Here and there he found trees of the sort he had seen at Twelvetrees, festooned with small reddish fruits. If the parrots ate them, he reasoned, the fruits must be at least minimally comestible. They were mouth-puckeringly sour, but they didn’t poison him.
The horns had increased in frequency since dawn. There were now three or four of them, signaling back and forth. Clearly, he was getting close. To what, he didn’t know, but close.
He paused, looking upward. The ground had begun to level out here; there were open spots in the jungle, and in one of these small clearings he saw what were plainly crops: mounds of curling vines that might be yams, beanpoles, the big yellow flowers of squash or gourds. At the far edge of the field, a tiny curl of smoke rose against the green. Close.
He took off the crude hat he had woven from palm leaves against the strong sun, and wiped his face on the tail of his shirt. That was as much preparation as it was possible to make. The gaudy, gold-laced hat he’d brought was presumably still in its box—wherever that was. He put his palm-leaf hat back on and limped toward the curl of smoke.
As he walked, he became aware of people, fading slowly into view. Darkskinned people, dressed in ragged clothing, coming out of the jungle to watch him with big, curious eyes. He’d found the maroons.
A SMALL GROUP OF MEN TOOK HIM FARTHER UPWARD. IT WAS JUST BEFORE sunset, and the sunlight slanted gold and lavender through the trees, when they led him into a large clearing, where there was a compound consisting of a number of huts. One of the men accompanying Grey shouted, and from the largest hut emerged a man who announced himself with no particular ceremony as Captain Accompong.
Captain Accompong was a surprise. He was very short, very fat, and hunchbacked, his body so distorted that he did not so much walk as proceed by a sort of sideways lurching. He was attired in the remnants of a splendid coat, now buttonless, and with its gold lace half missing, the cuffs filthy with wear.
He peered from under the drooping brim of a ragged felt hat, eyes bright in its shadow. His face was round and much creased, lacking a good many teeth—but giving the impression of great shrewdness, and perhaps good humor. Grey hoped so.
“Who are you?” Accompong asked, peering up at Grey like a toad under a rock.
Everyone in the clearing very plainly knew his identity; they shifted from foot to foot and nudged each other, grinning. He paid no attention to them, though, and bowed very correctly to Accompong.
“I am the man responsible for the two young men who were taken on the mountain. I have come to get them back—along with my soldiers.”
A certain amount of scornful hooting ensued, and Accompong let it go on for a few moments before lifting his hand.
“You say so? Why you think I have anything to do with these young men?”
“I do not say that you do. But I know a great leader when I see one—and I know that you can help me to find my young men. If you will.”
“Phu!” Accompong’s face creased into a gap-toothed smile. “You think you flatter me, and I help?”
Grey could feel some of the smaller children stealing up behind him; he heard muffled giggles, but didn’t turn round.
“I ask for your help. But I do not offer you only my good opinion in return.”
A small hand reached under his coat and rudely tweaked his buttock. There was an explosion of laughter, and mad scampering behind him. He didn’t
move.
Accompong chewed slowly at something in the back of his capacious mouth, one eye narrowed.
“Yes? What do you offer, then? Gold?” One corner of his thick lips turned up.
“Do you have any need of gold?” Grey asked. The children were whispering and giggling again behind him, but he also heard shushing noises from some of the women—they were getting interested. Maybe.
Accompong thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“No. What else you offer?”
“What do you want?” Grey parried.
